


Game Face

by Crewe



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-28 13:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8447623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crewe/pseuds/Crewe
Summary: Scanlan reflects on his conversation with Jarrett while preparing for the strategy meeting.
(Spoilers for ep. 73)





	

Scanlan looks up at himself in the mirror above the small wash basin, studying his face with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

 

His hair is getting a little long. He hasn’t had a lot of time, in between all the death and dragons and whatnot, to cut and style it exactly how he likes. He blows a lock of hair off his face with a huff, then swipes it back over his head with a sharp motion.

 

There’s already a bruise forming high on his cheekbone where Jarrett sucker punched him, and Scanlan scowls as he prods at it. It’s not a big deal to hide it--some concealer from his disguise kit will do--but it bothers him that there’s a visible remnant of their conversation. He’d much rather the party never find out what they discussed.

 

Well, the drugs would probably be fine. They might even be enthusiastic.

 

Scanlan takes a deep breath, then shoots his reflection a smirk and a wink. After a moment, he lets it fall, stares himself down with the serious gaze the party rarely gets to see, and asks himself just what the  _ hell  _ he thinks he’s doing.

 

It used to be so easy.

 

After his mother died, Scanlan had to reinvent himself. He had to learn fast how to get by on his own, and in doing so he’d accidentally discovered something else--he was pretty goddamn great at this ‘bard’ thing. It was easy, after that, to build himself from the ground up into something better than he was, to sing his own praises and then back them up, to make the name Scanlan Shorthalt mean something more than a small gnome lost in a world too big for him.

 

And none of it mattered.

 

On his own, it was easy to shed his ties to this plane, to live one step removed from everyone and everything around him, looking down like a sometimes-benevolent trickster god, dancing through life like nothing could touch him because nothing  _ did _ , and who cared if he went out so long as he went out in a blaze of glory? So he swindled people twice his size, threatened people twice that, and laughed at every close call because it didn’t  _ matter _ , nothing  _ mattered _ , he was still just one small gnome and he was going to make waves if he had to die to do it, because there was no other way anyone would care.

 

Traveling with Dr. Dranzel hadn’t really changed things. He loved the troupe, sure, the way he loved a rowdy bar and an adventurous lady: they were fun, they made life exciting for a while. Dranzel was a friend, but he was never family, not really. Dranzel appreciated his money-making talents and his sharp wit; Scanlan appreciated the accompaniment. If he left the troupe, he could never see them again and it wouldn’t matter. He could go on exactly as he always had before, and he'd be _fine_.

 

One day, he walked out and never looked back.

 

Scanlan splashes water on his face, and a shiver runs down his back at the temperature.

 

Vox Machina was different.

 

Not at first; at first, it was much like the troupe, only with more sharp objects and near-death experiences. They were interesting people, this band of mercenaries, and even good ones; it was enough of a new experience that Scanlan stuck around, and little by little he discovered that he  _ liked  _ these people. He liked Grog’s uncomplicated friendship and good humor, he liked Vax’s wholehearted approach to life and poorly hidden bleeding heart. He liked teasing Keyleth and verbally sparring with Vex and poking holes in Percy’s ego. He  _ basked  _ in the light of Pike’s goodness, and thought for a fleeting second he saw purpose in her halo, reason to be and redemption all at once.

 

As time went on, he realized that this group, the SHITs, Vox Machina, these  _ dumbasses _ , were entirely different from Dranzel’s bards. He stretched himself for their sakes--coming up with new ideas, greater plans, growing his magical power all for them, because he all of a sudden couldn’t quite fathom the thought of living without them anymore. These people  _ meant  _ something. They were meant  _ for  _ something--Scanlan could feel it down to his bones, in the music that swirled through his veins and gave him his power. And by god, he was going to make sure they stuck around for it, whatever the cost to himself.

 

He thought, maybe, that this is what he had been missing all those years on his own: something worth sacrificing for.

 

It was a relief. His smiles in the face of certain death were more real, the laughs afterwards more genuine; he kept himself alive so he could keep the party alive, and when things looked grim he quietly funneled all their resources away from him to his friends with a reassuring smile that hid the blood on his teeth.

 

It hadn’t always worked; he’d seen his friends dead on the ground too many times, had stood over them and wondered how it had all gone wrong, how it hadn't been enough, how time and again it was  _them_ and not _him_ despite all his best efforts.

 

And still, it was better. Vox Machina gave him something to die for, something he hadn’t had before, something that tied him down so he didn’t float away quite so far. The world was burning down around them and it didn’t matter, because he would burn himself up hotter and brighter to save his family, and it would be goddamn  _ glorious _ . So when Vax asked how he could keep smiling, and Scanlan told him  _ this is better _ , he wasn’t lying--and if he didn’t add,  _ it’s okay if I don’t make it out _ , well, that didn't apply to the rest of them, anyway.

 

And then.

 

God.

 

And  _ then _ .

 

Kaylie had come into his life like a maelstrom, shaking him to his very core until he looked up to find that everything around and about him had changed. Here was his  _ daughter _ , this brilliant, amazing woman made of his own flesh and blood, the best parts of himself taken form to stare him down from the length of a blade and tell him to  _ be better _ .

 

When Kaylie had collapsed into his arms that night, he had felt the weight of her like chains tying him to the earth in a way he’d never felt before.

 

If Kaylie wanted him around, if she wanted him to stay and live so that he could be better, so that he could be her  _ father _ , then what choice did he have? He didn’t have the right to refuse her after what he'd done. He would keep his promises to her no matter the cost--but all of a sudden he was faced with the possibility of a cost other than his own life.

 

He came crashing back to earth, amidst the rubble and fire and chaos, and didn’t know what to do. He had survived this far by staying above it all, by laughing at consequences because they only affected him and he could take it, and if he couldn’t then who cared? The worst he could do was die, and the thought had never bothered him before.

 

But  _ now _ . Now that he had to live, he had to deal with the world as it was. He had to scrounge around in the dirt and pain with everyone else, and it was too  _ much _ . He didn’t know how to feel this way. He didn’t know how to face the world as someone who was really a  _ part _ of it.

 

Maybe the drugs were a bad idea. They probably weren’t quite up there with  _ let’s be cows _ or  _ take on a house by himself  _ in terms of his greatest plans , but he didn’t know what else to do. The pressure of not just saving the world but making it out the other side bore down on him, and he just needed some  _ relief _ . Screwing around with Grog could only do so much when he knew that there was every possibility Grog could die in the next few weeks, and Scanlan might not be able to save him because he couldn’t lay his own life down for his when he’d promised Kaylie. Brothels had lost their appeal since she had brought the reality of his whoring down on his head.

 

She’d torn away most of his usual ways of coping. If he didn’t love her more than he loved himself--if he didn't know he was better for it--he might have resented her.

 

Drugs were a last ditch effort to deal. Maybe it was irresponsible, and Kaylie probably wouldn’t approve, but he could handle it. He wouldn’t let it destroy him, but he needed it so he didn’t destroy himself.

 

Scanlan takes a deep breath and releases his hair from its usual cue. He runs his fingers through it to comb out some of the knots and debris of battle, then ties it back up. He splashes some more water on his face, dabs it dry, and reaches for his bag. He breaks eye contact with himself to rifle through for his disguise kit. He’d rather not go into the war meeting with a bruise taking up half his face, thank you very much.

 

Like Vax said, he needs his game face on for this.

 

How ironic, that that would come from Vax, who wouldn’t know a  _ game face _ if it, well, sucker punched him. He thought that being broody and emo in a corner by himself instead of doing it all over everybody else counted.

 

Scanlan must really be slipping if  _ Vax  _ is telling him to hold it together.

 

He hopes Vax will really take his advice to heart. Seeing him with that sad, far-off look in his eyes reminded him of their conversation in Westruun, before they’d killed the dragon, when Vax had asked how he kept smiling, and Scanlan had reminded him that they were better off now. Even with dragons ruling the world, Vox Machina was better off together than they’d ever been as small-time lonely wanderers in a peaceful world left to deal with their problems on their own.

 

It was true then. It's still true. Wanting to live hurts more than Scanlan had ever expected, but when he thinks of the last time he saw Kaylie, laughing and gloating over her conquest at the card table, he knows that it's worth it; it's worth anything, to be in the same world as Kaylie, to have the chance to become whatever kind of person she needs. Maybe Jarrett was right, and it would be easier if he had a keepsake of her. But at the moment, what Scanlan needs even more is for her to be as far away from him as possible, out of reach of the dragons.

 

He’ll just have to keep it together until they're gone. Just two more dragons.

 

Speaking of which.

 

Scanlan finishes applying the concealer to his bruise and steps back from the basin, smoothing down his shirt and checking to make sure his appearance is as impeccable as always. Satisfied, he puts on another cocky smirk and watches as he disappears behind the mask of Scanlan Shorthalt: bard extraordinaire. It's one thing to let his guard down around those he trusts, and he does that little enough--it's quite another to show the embodiment of evil up in the war room that he's less than 100% on his game.

 

He packs up his bag and pushes the door to the wash room open, throwing a cavalier wink to a guard on patrol down the hall.

 

_ Game face on. _

  
_ Time to go. _


End file.
